


You are

by Floozxy



Category: Arrested Development
Genre: Bipolar GOB, Brief mention of self-harm, Homoromantic GOB, M/M, ages and canonical happenings are educated guesses, also can you tell i only write songs lmao, brief mention of abuse, sorry for any British-isms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-06
Updated: 2015-08-06
Packaged: 2018-04-09 02:08:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4329726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Floozxy/pseuds/Floozxy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You are GOB Bluth, from 8 years old to 44.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You are

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Keaton Henson's 'You' 
> 
> This is my first ever fic!! Written out of sheer thirst and desperation but I hope you enjoy anyway!
> 
> Also, I am aware that the Bluths aren't really religious, but i wanted to throw some of my own experiences into the mix so imagine George's father was religious or something idk

You are 8 years old, listening to Father Hooper’s hate-filled mass. He speaks of hell and the rapture in harsh Scottish tones – the mad ramblings of a man who’s own life has been over exposed to anger. He tells us that synagogues are filled with the devil; homosexuals are demons sent to do Lucifer’s bidding; how women’s true purpose is to serve their husbands. Sullen mumbling mixed with broken bible quotes. You wonder what this has to do with God at all. A young boy more interested with the gory paintings of Christ or the blonde boy with pretty blue eyes who sits two pews in front of you. And your father is shaking his head and sighing loudly at you while he pats your brother’s head. And your classmates keep their distance but you’re not sure you mind. You prefer to be alone anyway.  
And you lie in bed, too awake in the moonlight. The next-door couple scream words you don’t understand at each other until the early morning. 

You are 10 years old. And while grandfather discusses mass with the vicar you climb the large marble staircase to the top level offices that overlook the pews. And you clamber over the thick, mahogany railings and teeter on the edge. You wonder how many bones you would break if you jumped. How many stitches would be stitched and how many metal pins would have to be put in your arm. You wonder how much blood there would be and how much pain you’d feel. If you would topple like a rag-doll or stay suspended in the air; like an angel who lost his wings. And you realize you don’t have to wonder and that one step is all it would take to answer your questions. You dangle your toes over the edge; raise your arms above your head before stretching them out wide, like a diver preparing to dive, like a bird taking flight. Only to hear your name echoed across the caverns of the church and to be pulled back over the railings by a shaking nanny.  
And one of the boys in the school tells you Emily Barbour is a lesbian and he says it with such hate in his voice it sends shivers down your back. Later you see Emily crying in the playground and wonder why Satan would make his demons so susceptible to human emotions.  
The next-door neighbor's dog howls over their arguments and you wince, wishing you could rescue it. 

You are 13 and you spend mass scoffing and rolling your eyes. And the pretty boy with blue eyes tries to muffle his laughter at your mockery and exchanges silent smirks with you through prayer. And your parents say you have a bad attitude and your siblings call you a weirdo. And you take out your anger on those who are smaller and weaker then you, the laughs and jeers from your peers pushing you on makes you feel accepted, needed. You find true strength in magic kits and a deck of cards, your dad calls it pointless so you hide it under your mattress like a dirty secret; but you still feel it radiating through the layers of fabric when you lie in bed. It makes you feel like yourself.  
And Jacob Barnes invites you to his 14th birthday party and passes around a bottle of wine. The alcohol burns your throat and rests badly in your stomach. Once the bottle is empty they set it on the floor and you watch it spin round and round and round again until it finally settles on you and then on a girl in the year above. She makes a joke about how sheepish you look, showing off to the crowd and then her lips hit yours, her tongue slipping awkwardly into your mouth. Her lip-gloss tastes like artificial cherry and her teeth push into your top lip. Your hands are clammy and you dig the nail of your thumb into the palm of your left hand. She pushes you away forcefully once the countdown stops and you feel jittery and vaguely underwhelmed.  
The dog next door is joined by a child crying and you pray for once you get a good night’s sleep. 

You are 15 and you sit in church, doodling the parishioners in a blue notebook. And the boy with blue eyes sits in the back next to you, adding stink lines and crass speech bubbles.  
And suddenly you have such an ambivalence for home and spend most of your time sitting in the woods behind the house wondering why you don’t really feel anything anymore. You sit with a group of rowdy boys at lunch who laugh and fight and shout at the girls who walk past. Sometimes you join in, sometimes you can only sit and try to figure out why you don’t feel like smiling.  
You get comfort from badly rolled cigarettes and shaky camera footage of magic shows.  
And the boy with blue eyes hangs out under the boardwalk and talks with you. Telling you everything he feels and thinks. He tells you how he saw his dad hit his mom and how his sister is cheating on her boyfriend. You tell him about the illusions and how you think your dad likes your brother more then you. And one day he places his mouth on yours and you touch his face and his cheek is stubbly but soft and his breath is warm and comforting on your lips. But when you open your eyes he looks like he might snap and fall apart; his eyes are forming tears and you ask yourself what you did wrong.  
And you’re not sure there’s ever been a louder 3 year old then the one next door as it shrieks and bawls over the squabbles of its parents. 

You are 17 and don’t bother going to mass. You figure that God wouldn’t let everything get so bad. And your brother looks at you, disappointed, and tells you to just buckle up and do your best. His smile is never genuine with you anymore and you wonder if he changed or you did. And the boy with blue eyes has a girlfriend who sings choir every weekend and ignores you when you pass in the hall. And the boys ask you if you’re frigid when you won’t ask Mandy Rosoff on a date. And you find that you can barely keep track of your emotions let alone what month it is. One day you can feel yourself souring through the air, whiskey on your lips and nights out that turn into weeks out. The next you slice your thigh open with a pocket knife hoping that your blood will carry out whatever part of you has become deficient. Your friends act awkward around you, watching you carefully – acting like you could shatter with any wrong move and one by one, they fizzle out.  
One night you find yourself sobbing into the pillow for no reason at all and you wonder if Father Hooper was right and you really are a demon, because you’re so susceptible to human emotion.  
And the couple next door don’t scream as much but sometimes you hear them cry. 

You are 19 and haven’t been home in three weeks. You’re pretty sure your dad cancelled your credit card two weeks in but you don’t mind, you survive out of the back of your convertible; living off of the meager tips you earn from taking off your clothes. Hen parties and gay clubs are your battlefield; your body a weapon. And you feel free, elated – your boss calls you excitable but you feel so much more than that. You can’t remember the last time you slept and the last time you felt you needed sleep feels even further back in your memory; your energy bubbles inside of you and you need more. So when a guy at the strip club gives you bedroom eyes and you tell him its $50 for a blowjob and he obliges you give it all you got. You have more battlefields now; the stranger’s cars or back alleys you frequent, passing out sloppy handjobs and sloppier blowjobs for amounts you make up as you go –you love the war. And another Hot Cop – Chet – tells you he can hook you up with a pimp but you say no. You don’t want anything to take away how free you feel. Two weeks later and you wake up in a motel room you forgot the name of in a town you forgot the name of. You feel like you’re underwater – you hear noises outside. Dogs barking, people talking but it all feels distant and muffled. You think you should move but your bones are weighing you down like anchors and you feel too exhausted to fight with your own body. You go back to sleep.  
When you wake up again it is hot, mid-day light streaming in from the window burns your eyes as you peel them open and you’re suddenly aware of banging – at first you think its your heart, pummeling in your chest but then people are surrounding you and you realize the banging was knocking and you wish you had known so you could have told them to leave you alone. The people around you are police and they’re saying words that you can’t put together in your head. You think you hear your name but it feels clunky and detached. And you squeeze your eyes shut and hope that people get the message that you just want to sleep.  
There’s no fighting next door but there are people fighting around you. You go to sleep. 

You are 21 and at your brother’s wedding. You think it’s too white, filled with too many people you don’t know or want to get to know. And you can’t even remember the name of your date but you don’t think it matters because you saw her hooking up with one of the waiters on your way to the bathroom. The boy with blue eyes is here too with a baby on his hip, he smiles at you from across the room with a glint in his eye that reminds you of pulling tricks and you look away, choosing instead to stare into the bottom of your scotch glass. And your brother is in the corner; posing for photos with dad as Tracey looks on, love in her eyes. Everyone looks at Michael like that. You spend the morning playing with the ignition for your illusion, watching the sparks light up the end of your sleeve again and again. This is your gift. You’re going to get it right. As soon as you see the white of the dress burst into flame you run, you run from the shouts of the wedding guests, you run from the screams of the newest Bluth member and you run from your mistakes. It won’t be the first time and it won’t be the last.  
And you sleep in a hotel room that night, the silence of the building slices you open and stomps guilt through your veins. 

You are 22 and missing your nephews christening. You meant to go, but as soon as you pulled up to the church you felt your throat close up, so you sit, gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles and whispering words to yourself. You’re not sure if you’re breathing. And you find yourself outside ‘My Little Ballroom’ smoking a cigarette. You watch the smoke blend with the night air when you get tapped on the back, as you turn to face him you recognize him instantly as an old trick. You give him a price. You go back and forth all night, waiting outside the club until you’re propositioned before returning to your station. It feels common, it feels good. But you manage to follow the wrong guy, get in the wrong car and 30 minutes later you’re in cuffs, the florescent lighting of the holding cell agitates your eyes and the guy next to you is asking too many questions, talking too fast. Your knee seems to follow his words, bouncing up and down. And it feels like an age before your name is called and you see Michael's face in the waiting room; Tracey is behind him, George-Michael in her arms. He lectures you the whole way home, you don’t know if he’s more angry or disappointed.  
‘I don’t understand you G.O.B.’ He tells you ‘Do you even think about the things you do?’ You stare out of the window, the orange glow of the street lights merge together into one, thick line. You wonder how much it would hurt to jump out.  
And the couple next-door moved out after their daughter died but you can hear your parents arguing about you downstairs. 

You are 26 and going to forget everything.  
You take a pill and sleep like a baby.

 

You are 31 and standing next to a casket. You’ve been watching your brother for half an hour now, his hand rests on the top of the coffin and tears continue to slip down his cheeks as they have done all day. And the vicar looks uncomfortable as he tells Michael for the third time that they’re going to have to lower her now. He doesn’t let go, just stands and holds onto the shiny wood of the box, staring at the ring of roses that sit atop. It’s George Michael that gets him to move, reaching out for his father’s hand and speaking in his soft tone, pulling him back. And the casket is lowered and everyone is still and quiet. You close your eyes and focus on the warm sun hitting your face and breathe; trying to ignore the soft pelt of dirt you hear hitting the coffins lid. You’re brought back to reality by Lindsay’s arm linking with yours as she leans her body into you – you only notice now that she’s crying, it runs thick and black down her cheeks but she stays quiet, pushing her nails into your arm and you want to tell her it hurts but you don’t. And Michael doesn’t let go of his sons hand until he’s home in bed, you go to offer him a drink but he brushes past you. You drink alone.  
And you sit in bed listening to everyone wailing through the walls and you decide to leave again. 

You are 35 and on a boat. Your father is speaking slowly, some speech about the company. You don’t join in, don’t gather around like the rest of the crowd. Your father stopped including you in company business years ago. So you twirl your drink in the hand and stare out across the ocean. When the police boats arrive and everyone is shouting and running you know you can help. You know you can do something that will give your dad pride. So you push him into the Aztec tomb and you tell him that you’ll hide him; that you’ll fix this. You walk away feeling good, like you’ve done something right.  
‘I have to think the alliance is going to frown on this’. And you watch as the woman on screen continues to talk, you’re expecting the call any moment now – it’s all you can think about through conversations with your family. When the phone finally rings and you’re booted out once again, losing another home, losing more people, more broken strings on the web of your life, all you can think to do is drink.  
And that night you lay in bed next to some leggy blonde; quickly texting Marta a half lie about a family emergency. 

You are 37 and standing in-front of a son you didn't realize you had. His face is round, like his mothers probably was, but his eyes are a deep green like yours - you feel something lurch in your chest when he looks up at you with them, warm and begging. You move your hand slightly, going to clap him on the shoulder or something you imagine dads do but you pause half way, pulling your arm quickly back down to your side and stepping back. And Steve's eyes are pleading and innocent and you know that you can't be a dad, you already missed so much of his life and you would only ruin the rest of it. You hear Michael somewhere in the back of your mind, something about how you're a bad role model to his son, imagine what you'd do to your own son. So you hide out in your office, trying your best to ignore the odd feeling in your heart and ignoring Michael's judging looks without even meaning to.  
'Could it be love?' he tells you one day and as quick as you are to dismiss it the word pulsates through your brain.  
And you go to sleep that night thinking about your own dad, if this feeling you get for your sons is something that really can be ignored or if he just never had it in the first place.

You are 41 and don’t know where you are. Wherever it is its bright, too bright and it burns the back of your eyes. And there is a noise, a low hum of a bass lane – your body throbs with each beat. You wish you understood, but your memory fights with your mind and forces you back into your confusion each time you try to access it. Like a wall, too tall to get over. You’re not sure how long you lie there for before voices are around you; they’re familiar, calming for a moment – JBJ and the gang. But they twist and turn into something cruel and sinister. You wish you could make out the words. There is also some part of you that is glad you can’t. And then someone is saying your name – GOB – And memories of boyfights, drunken thanksgivings, magic, pretty boys and pretty girls come flooding into your head. Memories so far back that they are fuzzy around the edges, mixing into one another. You still smile at them, wincing only slightly at the pain in your throat.  
‘Hey man, you look really sick’ JBJs voice cuts through your thoughts and you can see him standing above you, the florescent lighting makes him look ethereal and surreal. You pull yourself up, your mouth feels so dry to speak so you just push past them. And you don’t recognize where you are but your feet seem to know the route like you’ve walked it a thousand times and before you know it you’re standing in a corner shop with a pear in your hand and an empty bottle on the desk. The guy across the counter is shouting at you and you don’t know why but suddenly you feel dizzy, black spots clouding your vision.  
You’re faintly aware of ambulance sirens and you desperately don’t want to go to sleep but your body seems to be working against you these days. 

You are 44 and in love. In love with blue eyes and spiky black hair, pink goatees and badly sung show-tunes. And he loves you too, he makes sure you know; whether it’s plastered on the fridge when you wake up or whispered into your ear on a sleepless night. You lie next to him one day, his hands gently brushing the skin of your left side. He has so many questions, about your life and where you came from; and you’re happy to tell him, so you do, you tell him about the boy with blonde hair and when you caught your dad having sex with your nanny. You leave out certain parts, like days where you couldn’t get out of bed and multiple hickeys on your thighs from strangers so desperate they were happy to pay. You ask him in return, because you’re suddenly struck with a need to know everything about him and as he speaks you lie there – slightly stunned – because you’re hanging on every word and every weird fact or funny story seems to be a new breath into your lungs. And now you know that Father Hooper was wrong because this man in front of you isn’t evil or demented but a piece of art. And one day, you bring him over for your dads birthday party; the words ‘This is my boyfriend Tony’ tumbling out of your mouth. Everyone looks unsurprised and Michael even claps you on the back and smiles at you, genuine. And the weeks fade into months and you feel uncomfortably calm at the fact you’ve only been sleeping with one person for six months – and unsurprisingly panicked at the realization that you don’t want to sleep with anyone else, because these days your entire world is Tony, Tony, Tony, Tony. His name pulsates through your mind with each beat of your heart. And one day, when the darkness starts to close in again, your body feeling tied and weighed down, your skin feeling uncomfortable and itchy on your bones, he’s still there. A gentle hand on your back or a sweet smile as he stands by your (our) bed, a tray in hand, pestering you to eat. Even on the really bad days, where you don’t feel like you can even move from under the covers he sits beside you, telling you stories from his childhood, or about the interesting book he’s been reading. And when you look at him with wet eyes and tell him there’s something wrong with you he shakes his head. He squeezes your knee when you sit in the doctor’s office and again as you take your first pill with dinner. You smile as the fog begins to clear; bit by bit.  
And the body next to you is warm in bed, soft breaths tickling your neck. You go to sleep. Smiling.


End file.
